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tightening on the phone. “There are some names I need you to covertly look up: Dane Richards—he’s one of the heads of the Project. You might not find much on him.”
    “Good guy or bad guy?”
    Ah, my father. My eyes pricked; he understood. “Bad guy.”
    “Got it.”
    “Here’s the next guy: Adrian Sumner. Good guy. He knows about the Project because his father was the lead scientist.”
    “What’s his father’s name?”
    I pinched my temples. Can’t remember, can’t remember . . . Then, wham , the name hit me over the head.
    “Dr. Brent Sumner.”
    “Good guy or bad guy?”
    “Good guy—but deceased.”
    “Ember Bug, what exactly is going on here?”
    “I don’t know,” I said, my throat thick, “but it’s a matter of national security, and I’m a part of it.”
    “Are you okay?”
    Loaded question. “I’m fine.” For now. “Dad—promise me that whatever you do with that information, you’ll be careful. Anything you talk about, read about, search for—the Project can trace it if they think you’re hiding something.”
    “Of course.”
    “Dad, I’m serious. These guys . . . they’re used to killing off people, and they won’t hesitate to target you if they feel you’re a threat. You and Mom are probably already in danger just because I called.”
    He must’ve heard something in my voice because his next words were solemn.
    “Ember Bug, we’ll be careful, but I am glad you called. Please don’t ever wait this long again, regardless of the consequences.”
    I came dangerously close to explaining why he hadn’t heard from me in all this time. But reasonable or not, the man on the phone was first and foremost my father. He’d have an aneurysm if he learned just how not all right I’d been during the past year.
    “Thank you for trusting me and your mother with this,” he said, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s so damn good to hear your voice and know you’re okay.” His voice broke, and I heard him choke back a sob.
    The sound of sirens blared as an emergency vehicle sped by the house.
    “Where are you, Ember?” my dad asked.
    I bit my lip, debating whether it was better or worse for him to know. My father understood the risks; he deserved to have some answers. “LA at the moment,” I said, “but I’ll either be in Mexico by the time we speak next or . . . perhaps somewhere near Big Sur.” If they caught me. That was a very real possibility now that I knew I might teleport again at any moment; that limited my movement. “That’s where they were keeping me before.”
    I heard him swear over the phone. “ Stay safe, Bug. I already know what it feels like to lose you. I can’t go through that again.”
    Another emergency vehicle passed by, its siren blaring. I knew my father could hear it over the phone.
    “I will—I promise. I got to go.”
    “Are you going to be okay? When will I hear from you again?”
    I opened the drawers in the kitchen, fishing out scissors, duct tape, and what looked like a spare car key. “Whenever it’s safe to call. That might not be for a while—don’t assume I’m dead.” I never imagined I’d have to utter those particular words. “I love you, Dad—tell Mom I love and miss her.”
    “Will do, Bug. I love you too. We’ll find a way to get you out of this.”
    I swallowed down a lump in my throat and nodded. “You stay safe too. Talk soon.”
    I ended the call and fisted the phone.
    I’d just gotten my parents involved.
    Shit.

    With the car key in hand, I headed for the garage. As I did so, I lowered the coat I wore to glance at my upper arm, where earlier I’d noticed a bump. Running my fingers over it again, I felt the same hardness. It couldn’t have been more than a centimeter across, and it felt perfectly symmetrical. I could barely make out a thin white line just below it, what looked to be an incision mark.
    “Fuck,” I swore loudly.
    I figured it could be anything, but if I had to guess? It was some sort of